Wiseguys In Love (30 page)

Tony was going to get his today. Her thighs tensed, exposed beneath a very short white miniskirt. Her chest felt flushed as she thought about having him on top of her on the lawn, and it felt itchy under the tight white middrift she'd thrown on. Men, she thought angrily, and she floored it.

*   *   *

They sat in the car listening to the radio, and Tony glanced up at the door every couple of minutes. He had turned on one of those stations that played back-to-back news, and they had now heard, for the third time, how the cops had found Geddone's body.

They listened to all the suppositions being put out by the cops, about how they figured it might be mob-connected, or a robbery attempt.

Tony listened like a producer listening to a good review of his movie and smiled proudly, shaking his head.

“Jeez, those guys, they don't know nothin', huh, Mikey?” He chuckled.

Michael gave him a weak smile and looked forward. He could feel his stomach begin to go on him.

“Hey, Tony, put on some music, huh?” he said, watching him grimace and then switch channels.

He waited for Tony to look back to the doorway, and then he slowly tightened his hand on the gun in his pocket. His hand was sweating around it and his shoulder was held slightly up in an uncomfortable shrug. He was going to have to keep it there.

His eyes faced down Grand Street. In the distance, he could see where the street turned slightly, just at Broadway, where it ceased to be SoHo and turned into Little Italy. At the turn, he could see in his mind the big red, white, and green sign for Ferrara's pastry shop. He sat there trying to remember the smells and sounds of the block that he probably wouldn't see again soon, if ever. He wanted to try to etch it into his mind so he would never forget it.

They'd been sitting in front of the building for twenty-five minutes, and Michael's shoulder was hurting from holding it up loosely on the gun. Tony coughed and Michael glanced sideways. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the door to the building open and Henry Foster Morgan stagger outside.

“Okay, let's go,” he heard Tony say.

Tony opened his door and Lisa opened hers and jumped out. As Tony turned and looked behind, Michael grabbed at the bulge in Tony's jacket. His hand quickly slipped inside and he grabbed Tony's gun.

“What the hell's going on here?” Tony said as he turned back and his eyes fell down on the gun Michael was holding on him beneath the dashboard.

“Mikey,” he began, and Michael watched a pained, confused look cross his cousin's face.

“I can't let you do this. I—” he started, and suddenly Tony got out of the car, as though he hadn't even seen the gun.

“He's gettin' away,” Tony yelled back in as he quickly began to walk behind Henry toward West Broadway. Michael sat still, stunned for a moment.

He pulled himself up and sprang out of the car, waving the gun.

“Tony! Stop right now!” he yelled as he watched Tony almost put his hand on Henry's shoulder. Tony turned and stared at Michael, then his eyes stared down at the gun and back up to Michael's face.

“What are you doin' here?” was the eerie question that came from him. It was the same one he'd asked the Bronx league's tackle sixteen years before. Good, Michael thought, it'll keep me focused.

“I'm going to shoot you.”

“Yeah?” Tony chuckled and turned around. “I don't think so,” he said, and began walking away.

“I got a fucking gun on you!” Michael screamed indignantly.

“You got the fuckin' safety on.”

People stopped suddenly and Michael heard gasps as someone yelled, “Look out, he's got a gun!”

As Michael struggled with the safety, he saw Lisa come up beside him. She grabbed the gun out of his hands as Michael reached inside to the gun in his pocket.

“Tony, STOP!” she yelled as Michael unhooked the safety.

Tony slowly turned around in the middle of West Broadway, staring at the two of them. They were both shaking and pointing their guns at him, their arms extended and tight. People on the sidewalks began scattering. A frown passed Tony's face as his arms rose up and the three of them stood staring at one another. Behind Tony, Michael could see the figure of Lisa's boss disappearing obliviously around a corner.

“What are youse doin'?”

“We're going to stop you.”

“How?”

“We're going to shoot you.”

“Yeah?” Tony asked, and then they watched this odd smirk cross his face. “How come I don't hear no gun goin' off? What are youse gonna do? Talk me to death? Go
bang bang
and hope I drop? You guys,” he said, throwing his hands up at their incompetence. Then he turned his back on them.

Michael watched him take one step and he closed his eyes and gently squeezed the trigger. Beside him, he heard Lisa's gun go off, as well. Screams came from the crowds as people in the restaurants began leaning up against the windows. Michael slowly opened his eyes to what he knew was going to be a bloody sight.

They'd missed. His jaw dropped.

He stared openmouthed at Tony, who was standing in the street, facing them, shaking his head, and in the corner of his eye, behind Tony, out on the edge of Grand Street and Sixth Avenue, Michael saw the light change and a white Lincoln roar around the turn.

“I don't fuckin'—”

The Lincoln was not slowing down.

“Tony, look out,” Michael heard himself scream as the car came at him.

There was a thud of flesh hitting metal, and Tony's body was thrown sideways from the force, landing in the crosswalk at West Broadway and Grand, motionless. Michael was holding on to Lisa—and for what seemed like an eternity, life stopped on the street.

“Get out of here,” he said, pushing Lisa away from him.

“But—”

“I'll meet you at Grand Central. GET OUT NOW,” he screamed, pushing her hard. He watched her stare at his face, then down at Tony, and run. He looked after her for a second, just to make sure she had gotten away, and then he ran over to Tony as Angela got out of the car. He knelt down to Tony, then glanced up and saw Lisa disappear up Sixth Avenue.

When the ambulance finally showed up, Angela was kneeling beside Tony, weeping.

“I wasn't gonna run you over, I swear, Tony, I swear.”

Tony was staring up at the sky as faces pressed in a crowded circle looked down on him with curiosity. Michael helped the attendants get Tony onto the stretcher and into the ambulance.

“One person only,” the man said, and Angela stared at Michael.

“Him,” Tony's voice floated out to them.

Michael stared at Angela, who shook her head and nodded. Michael climbed inside.

“I'm comin' to the hospital, Tony,” Angela yelled inside, “don't you worry! I'm gonna take good care of youse from now on.” Her voice filtered through the ambulance doors right before they closed them.

“Fuckin' great, all I need,” Tony mumbled.

Michael stared down at him as the ambulance lurched into motion toward Beekman Downtown Hospital. The plastic IV sac swung against the chrome rod as the emergency medic kept his eyes on the drip.

“Tony—” Michael began.

“Mikey,” Tony interrupted, then he lay there for a moment. “You aint' cut out for this life,” he said finally.

“No.”

“You and Michigan stand less than ten feet from me, and the only one hits me is Angela with the car. You don't even remember about the fuckin' safety,” he added. And as he tried to shake his head, he let out a low yelp from the pain.

“Don't try to move,” the medic said quickly.

They were silent for a moment.

“You gotta get out of town, Mikey. Take Michigan with youse. Solly's not gonna like any of this shit.”

“Okay,” Michael said evenly, then added, “Tony, I didn't want to shoot you—”

“You didn't. You missed,” he added, grimacing, and the pain welled up in his face again. “You was right and I was wrong—you're just not cut out for this line of work.”

“No.”

The ambulance came to a stop and the doors were pulled open by attendants. Michael saw them pull the gurney out, heard the legs snap down, and watched as they lowered Tony down as gently as possible. Michael climbed down after him and walked alongside.

“Stop,” Tony said as they were halfway through the doors to the emergency room. “STOP A MINUTE,” he screamed out.

“Mr.—” one of the medics began, and Michael leaned down over Tony.

“Get out of here,
now.
I ain't kidding. I'll try and square it with Solly, but just leave,” he was saying, and suddenly they heard Angela's voice.

“You fuckin' let me in to see Tony or I'll make big trouble for youse, I swear!” she was screaming at one of the attendants.

“Aw jeez,” Tony muttered again, and Angela burst through the doors. “Go. I'll let youse know when it's safe to come back.”

*   *   *

Rosa Morelli was busy packing her bags. She was going to leave as soon as she could, that day. Solly hadn't squared it for her. She'd been shamed and disgraced by this pig of a man in her office and no one cared. No one cared that she had nothing.

She was going to go down to Florida and she was going to buy the best condo she could. Really soak Solly for the money.

She walked to the door, carrying her bags, and looked around. She'd come back for the rest of her things, she thought.

She put the key in the lock.

No, she wouldn't. She'd let Solly buy her all new things! That would get Gina into hot water, the bills.

She made it down to the front of her building and stared at what was left of the station wagon—a dirty, empty shell. She looked up as her neighbor Mr. Ciccone came up beside her, shaking his head at the thing.

“It's gonna be here for months,” he said.

“Yeah,” she said, and turned to walk away. She turned back.

“You wanna get rid of that thing?” she hollered back to him. He looked up and nodded. “All you need is some gasoline and a match. You set fire to it and the fire department, they come and put it out and report it to them guys who tow cars.” She nodded at him.

“All I gotta do is set it on fire?” his voice echoed after her. She made it to the corner of a Hun' sixteen and hailed a gypsy cab.

“Newark, and you make it fast,” she warned the driver.

She sat back in the seat. She'd started spending Solly's money already. That should get Gina back for this.

*   *   *

Lisa ran up Grand to Sixth Avenue and hailed a cab.

She walked into the apartment stiffly. Then she marched into the bedroom and pulled open the closet door, banging it loudly.

Behind her, she heard Andrew stir, with a moan.

“Wha—” he began groggily. She pulled down the suitcase and began emptying her drawers.

“Lisa? Were we robbed? What happened to the window in the living room and all my liquor?” he asked, sitting up in bed and rubbing his eyes.

She emptied her underwear drawer into the suitcase she had originally arrived in New York with, and then went to the closet and began picking out dresses she wanted to keep.

“What are you doing?” he asked as she crunched her best dresses and skirts into the case.

She walked into the bathroom and remembered that her toothbrush and her face stuff were in the small bag she'd packed for the weekend and left in the car in Harlem. She walked back into the bedroom.

“You owe me an explanation,” he said as she locked up her suitcase. She lugged it into the living room and then walked back into the bedroom.

“Don't give me this attitude—” he began.

“Listen, you jerk, I'm leaving. You can screw what's-her-name for the rest of your life. You can take anything that's left of mine in this apartment and toss it. You lying, two-faced—rat bastard,” she heard herself say, echoing Angela.

She walked back into the living room as he followed.

“You owe me the rent for this month and—”

“Keys,” she said, holding up her set. She promptly dropped them on the couch. “The car is parked on Pleasant Avenue and a Hundred and nineteenth Street,” she continued.

“What is my car doing on a Hundred and nineteenth Street for—”

“Find someone else to pay for your co-op,” she said, cutting him off.

She swung her purse over her shoulder and picked up her suitcase.

“And I'll tell you one thing else, if I come down with any kind of disease because of you, I'll break every bone in your body—and that goes for Cynthia, too!”

She heard him screaming about his rent as she rang for the elevator. She got on and rode down in silence. When she got to the lobby, she lugged the suitcase out to the sidewalk and stood still for a moment.

She looked back at the lobby doorway and a sudden feeling of relief washed over her: relief at never having to come back to this doorway each night; at never having to have that foreboding, as she walked in, that she was going to be sitting all alone waiting for the inevitable phone call. She looked up at the building and then down the block, searching for anything that felt like sorrow about all this. She was just … surprised by how pleased she was at not having to do this anymore.

Two hours later, she was standing at the information booth at Grand Central. The odd mix of smells of doughnuts and hot dogs and cookies wafted around the busy terminal. The large clock on top of the information booth showed one o'clock. She sat down on her suitcase and leaned her face on her hands.

He wasn't going to show up.

There was that sinking feeling she got when she knew something was going to go wrong.

She couldn't lose him. All she wanted to do was have him next to her. She wanted to spend the rest of her life touching him. God, what if something really bad had happened?

The terminal echoed with more announcements of trains departing and arriving. People poured out of the archways to the train platforms as others fought their way in. She should stay and wait for him. Maybe she should go after him.… That was the kind of thinking that had gotten her in this mess in the first place.